SURFERS AND OTHER HOPELESS ROMANTICS I MISS

I awoke early this morn determined to have an adventure on the road. The sky was overcast yet blue was peaking through to the east. The weather looked to be more to the west. Coffee made and devoured, I called my cousin on the seacoast. "Want to ride," I inquired? "You bet," he replied. We agreed to meet at a seacoast tavern for Brunch.

Quick morning chores completed, I jumped on the Bimmer and blasted toward the sea. I knew I could make it there in 40 minutes by highway, or 75 by county road. I chose the latter.

Cousin Den devoured an amazing Brunch Buffet, leaving me in awe of his gastric capacity. I was less adventuresome having spied on the menu Artichoke Hearts in Garlic Butter. I orderded these (sans the cheese) with garlic bread and wine. It was a very good choice.

We then rode up the coast toward Maine, stopping to watch the rather large gathering of surfers at Rye Beach. It seems they were all anticipating huge waves from Tropical Storm Florence, but from what I could see, the waves were only in the 2 to 3 foot range. One has to admire optimism, nonetheless.

Riding along later in the day, I began to see those surfers as heroic believers in the romantic ideal. They sought perfection: perfection in the waves and in themselves. They were not dissimilar from so many of us romantics really. They had a dream and they were willing to risk everything for it.

I imagine that the waves will increase in size over the next several days. These same surfers will be there. I know: I used to be one of them. They will drop everything just for the chance to ride the perfect wave. I totally understand how they feel.